


a due

by arabesque05



Category: Hockey RPF, Nodame Cantabile
Genre: Alternate Universe - Classical Music, Alternate Universe - Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-03-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 18:12:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arabesque05/pseuds/arabesque05
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Geno is always over for dinner, because otherwise Geno subsists on frozen pelmeni and instant ramen, and will go for days without eating anything green or—if left to his own devices—without eating anything at all. Sidney has a humanitarian duty to feed Geno, who is too good a pianist to be allowed to die of scurvy." Orchestra!AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Over dinner, Geno tells Sidney, "I found you first-chair violinist," sounding immensely pleased with himself—not unlike a cat bringing its owner a dead squirrel.

"Oh," says Sidney, who has no need for squirrels or first chair violinists. "You—you found me a…but Geno, I have a first chair."

"Sid, Sid, Sid," says Geno, with disparaging affection. "Not everyone live music like you. Some people have life outside. Pay attention."

Sidney has no idea how that’s supposed to explain the first chair situation, but more pressingly: "What is that supposed to mean?" he asks. "Who was found buried in Rachmaninoff scores last week? Who forgot to eat all day yesterday? Who almost drowned in the bathtub because they—"

"But _R_ _achmaninoff_ ," says Geno, plaintively. "Always exceptions for  _R_ _achmaninoff_."

—

The next week, Sidney’s concert-mistress goes out with mono.

"Okay, fine," scowls Sidney, when Geno is over for dinner again. (That is not really the correct way to phrase the situation. Geno is  _always_  over for dinner, because otherwise Geno subsists on frozen pelmeni and instant ramen, and will go for days without eating anything green or—if left to his own devices—without eating anything at all. Sidney has a humanitarian duty to feed Geno, who is too good a pianist to be allowed to die of scurvy.) "Fine. How did you know."

'Her boyfriend in my composition class," says Geno. "He sick last week. You want to meet Nealsy now, yes?"

Sidney assumes "Nealsy" is the first chair Geno found—as if first chairs are just  _found_. "No," says Sidney. "We’ll move second chair up, probably, or—"

"But Nealsy’s violin  _best_ ," argues Geno, which pauses Sidney. Geno is sort of free with his smiles and his affections and good-natured cheer, but not with his praise. As exacting as Sidney can be about technique and phrasing and clarity of notes, Geno probably has a better ear for expression. Geno, in all the time Sidney has known him, has never misjudged artistry.

—

"Hello," says Sidney, when he meets James Neal, by which he means,  _Holy shit_  and  _Jesus fuck_  and _G_ _eno you asshole_. James Neal does not have dreadlocks, but it isn’t through lack of effort.

"Natural oils are important for the roots," James explains to Geno, who is trying to jiggle the window of the practice room open. 

"Should still wash hair more," says Geno, absently. The window goes up with a series of wooden shudders. "Girls not like."

"Girls like guys who  _have_  hair more than those who  _don’t_ ," argues James. "And shut up—you totally went no-showers a couple of days last semester, when you were buried in that Liszt piece."

"Liszt," says Geno, waving it off. "Always exceptions for Liszt. And anyway: should at least make good impression for Sidney."

Geno does not often call Sidney ‘Sidney’: it is always ‘Sid’ or ‘maestro’ or ‘captain,’ depending on the various levels of affection and snark and exasperation Geno is feeling. ‘Sidney’ sounds strangely formal from him, and Sid sits with his shoulders a little straighter in response.

"Oh, yeah," says James, turning back to Sidney. "Thanks again, man; I really need to work out the tweaks in this jury piece."

"…jury piece," says Sidney, and raises his eyebrows at Geno, by which he means,  _I_ _thought this was a first chair audition?_

Geno gives him a double thumbs up in reply, as blatant a  _B_ _oth!_   _I’m really efficient!_  as anything he could have said.

"I’m not studying the violin," says Sidney.

"Yeah, I know," says James. "Conducting, right? But Geno said you had a good sense about these things—I guess the structure of the music or whatever? I don’t know, I never worried about this kind of shit with electric violins."

"…electric violins," repeats Sidney, because Jesus Christ, how does Geno find these people? A classical violinist with rock-n-roll aspirations. Of course Geno found him.

''Okay, we play for Sid, and then he fix," says Geno, like things are as easy as that. He sits down at the piano bench. James opens up his violin case and takes out the bow, tightening it; and Sidney wanders over to the open window, next to the piano.

"I didn’t know you were accompanying," says Sidney, quietly. "He’s that good?" There’s only so much time in the day, after all, and everyone’s been grooming Geno for solo pieces and orchestral headlines since his first year. This is a detour, and James is an exception.

"Yes, he’s good," agrees Geno, settling his fingers over the piano keys, while James does a quick tune check. There’s a breeze coming in through the open windows, soft and faintly wistful, an early autumn sort of wind. "But—more, i think, interesting. Different, yes?"

—

Different is not the right word. Possibly ‘fucking insane.’ Neal  _and_ Geno both, thinks Sidney.

"Oh man," says James. "I think that went pretty good actually, don’t you?" He grins at Geno, and then turns to Sidney with expectant eyes.

"I—" Sidney stares. "…this was Beethoven’s _S_ _pring_ , wasn’t it?"

"Yeah," agrees James.

"What—what fucking kind of spring was that?" Sidney asks. That was not any kind of spring he’s ever heard, or experienced, before; unless maybe you spent your spring in the middle of thunderstorming hurricanes.

"The spring of our lives," explains James. "It’s a piece of about youthful vigor, right? The vigor and excitement and boundless energy of…of being young? Right, Geno?"

"Like lightning," agrees Geno. "Bright flashing."

"What." says Sidney. "What. No. No—spring isn’t about  _lightning_. It’s—it’s about flowers blooming and new leaves on trees and…and— _growth!_  You’re not meant to shock the audience."

"You’re always meant to shock the audience!" exclaims James, like he is reciting dogma. R _ock-n-roll_  dogma, maybe.

"Oh god," says Sidney. But it’s less with disgust than with a sinking feeling of horror: because that is the same sort of incomprehensible philosophy that Geno takes toward music; because there are all sorts of ridiculous timing and phrasing and dynamic issues with James’ playing, but even with all that, he had the same way of drawing out the soul of a piece—even if that soul was the  _lightning of youth—_ as geno. Because rough around the edges as James is, dreadlocks and rock-n-roll aspirations and all, Sidney suspects Geno probably  _had_  found him a concertmaster.


	2. Chapter 2

Geno has an awkward forty-minute break between when his theory class ends and when he’s scheduled for the practice rooms, so he takes to sitting through Sidney’s spring concert rehearsals. Sidney’s not sure what to make of this; but as Geno isn’t distracting anyone, Sidney is hardly about to throw him out.

Only: sometimes Geno looks a little wistful, sitting there in the back of the auditorium, his lone figure slouched low in the seats.

"Pianists," says Flower, during break after Geno has left for his own practice. "Strange bunch."

Sidney looks up from his score markings to squint at Flower. "Um."

"Fuckface," says Flower affectionately. "Look at you trying to front like timpanists aren’t your favorite."

"You aren’t when you keep chewing gum doing during rehearsal," says Sidney, turning back to his score. "And don’t think I can’t see you checking your phone when you’re supposed to be counting rests."

"There are only so many half-rests I can count, Sid, before I fall asleep," Flower tells him. "And did I miss a beat? No, I didn’t. But I might stop with the phone if you’d up the tempo a bit."

"Sorry you’re so bored back there," says Sidney, flatly. "That’s just terrible."

"I get lonely," sighs Flower. "All by myself in the back. Without friends. Just waiting. Waiting."

"…I can’t tell if this is you guilt-tripping me into a tempo increase, or if this is still about Geno," confesses Sidney. "Besides, he’s busy with his own concerto. He’s okay."

"Yeah," agrees Flower, "That’s definitely why he keeps hanging around rehearsals."

—

Flower is probably forty-five to eighty percent at fault for how Sidney met Geno. Or rather, how they didn’t meet. Which is to say, that day, Flower made faces at Sidney when Sidney complained about the Mahler symphony they were doing that semester; and he bodily dragged Sidney out of the library, paying no attention to Sidney’s whining about how it was only four in the afternoon and there was still a lot of work day left; and when they passed the under the windows of the North Hall practice rooms and Sidney suddenly stopped midstride like he’d walked into an invisible wall, Flower waited quietly; and when the  _P_ _athetique_  filtering out from the open window above them ended and Sidney let out a breath like he’d been holding it the entire time and made to go into the North Hall, Flower grabbed his arm and hauled him to the nearest bar and told him that music appreciation was one thing but hunting a pianist down could conceivably be considered ‘stalking’.

"But—" said Sidney. Every time he did, Flower bought him another beer. There was a lot of beer that night.

Sidney doesn’t remember much of it. At some point in the night, he pillowed his head in his arms, and damply complained to Flower that the second violins just wouldn’t keep on rhythm, and the piccolos kept forgetting how triplets worked; and Sidney didn’t even know what he was supposed to be expressing with this piece, he didn’t even like Mahler—no, sorry, Sidney didn’t mean that, he didn’t mean that, sorry Mahler.

Anyway. How was Flower? _  
_

"Sometimes," mused Flower. "I am astonished by how good a friend I am."

"You are," agreed Sidney fuzzily.

"Like—today. I take you to a bar and let you cry to me about your symphony girlfriend," Flower continued.

Sidney frowned. He wasn’t crying, and also the symphony wasn’t his girlfriend, and also Flower was a fuckface.

"You’re a fuckface," replied Flower, comfortably. He slouched a little lower in his seat and considered his beer. At length, he said, "But God, rehearsal today was the worst. You’re right. Today was terrible. Let’s have a do over."

"Let’s," agreed Sidney. Then he paused. "No. No—except the  _P_ _athetique_  today—…that was. I liked that." _  
_

"What?" asked Flower. "…we’re doing Mahler’s Fifth."

"I wouldn’t mind a  _P_ _athetique_ girlfriend," Sidney told him.

"You’d take a piano piece over a full symphony," said Flower.

"I’d take anyone who could play like that," admitted Sidney.


End file.
